There were enough breaks in the clouds to remind us there could be sun.  Rain didn’t fall as much as spurt from the sky, intermittently, and with little power behind it.  But it was enough to soak the picnic benches, prompting several of us to muscle the tables further under the shelter and away from the fireplace where Josh built a fire.  Lush green grass and blooming trees aside, you’d never have guessed it was April in Atlanta.

In my usual state of rebellion, I’d worn flip-flops under my blue jeans and hoodie.  Within minutes of arriving, I was grateful I listened when a voice of reason couched in loving kindness urged me to throw a pair of shoes in the car “just in case”.  It was tricky business switching out my footwear without getting my socks wet, but I managed.  As I perched inside the door on the backseat of my car, a steady stream of soggy guests passed on the other side.

By the time I emerged, the party was well under way.  A large, multi-colored balloon bouquet swayed languidly over a chocolate birthday cake. The smell of grilling meat billowed from a flume on one side of the grill, an array of chips and desserts filled one of the tables, and a football sailed, occasionally, over the heads of laughing children.  Hoods were on heads, hands were in pockets, and breath floated like conversation bubbles over the heads of guests, happy to see each other.  Things would have been very nearly perfect if only Trey could have been there.  For the second time, we celebrated his birth after his death.

In the days leading up to the party, I marveled at how well I was handling things.  There had been no crying jags or heavy sighs.  I wasn’t sleeping particularly well but, as a woman of a certain age, there were any number of possible explanations for that.

And then, someone mentioned ketchup.  Which made me think of mustard.  Which made me think of mayonnaise, and cheese, and relish, and trash bags, and streamers, and noise-makers, and all the other incidentals that would normally come without thinking when planning a birthday cook-out.  Except that nothing was normal.  Normal hadn’t happened yet.  Perhaps it never will.  And, if it ever does, it won’t be on that day.  That day, Trey’s birthday, will never be normal again.

I didn’t realize until I got there how much I hadn’t wanted to come, or how little I’d done to prepare.   Luckily a store down the street stocked most of what I’d forgotten and, by the time the burgers were done, we had everything we needed.

People attended the party for different reasons.  Some, like me, came out of a sense of obligation.  Some came to celebrate the life of a friend.  At least one came for the company, and a few came for the food.  I realized though, as I looked over the crowd, that despite our personal motivations, we were all there for the same reason.

We were collateral damage.